


Matchups

by outruntheavalanche



Category: The Dreyfus Affair - Peter Lefcourt
Genre: Baseball, Gen, M/M, Trades, this is old
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-20
Updated: 2005-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 03:04:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4374776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outruntheavalanche/pseuds/outruntheavalanche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Really, when you get down to it, Randy had expected his job to be the more secure of the two.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Matchups

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote this for Contre Le Montre's "reunion" challenge about... 10 years ago? I just found it while looking at an old LJ, spruced it up a little, and posted it. 
> 
> You probably need to have read the book to understand the plotline and have a basic idea of who the characters are.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://nullrefer.com/?https://finnrye.tumblr.com/)!

Really, when you get down to it, Randy had expected his job to be the more secure of the two. Considering he was headed for the Hall of Fame (even with the whole being-a-lefty thing) and DJ was just average at best, the phone call from his agent, Barry Fuchsia, had still served as a huge shock to his system, much like being dumped into a tub of ice-cold water. Or worse yet, being beaned in the groin with a 100 mile-per-hour fastball.

"Randy," Barry had shouted, probably cruising down the freeway in the flashy new sports car he'd been able to afford thanks to Randy's shoe deal, static cutting up and chopping into the line, "Randy. I have good news."

Randy, who was not a fan of being awakened at six in the morning by anyone, least of all his agent, let out a groan. "What is it, Barry? It's kinda early here," he muttered, throwing his arm over his face, holding his phone away from his ear, wincing at the static.

"You've been traded, Randy. To Baltimore," Barry continued, voice still raised. Randy could hear sounds in the distance, the sounds of other cars passing by, the engine of Barry's brand spanking new sports car purring like a kitten. 

Randy scowled. "Traded? You're yanking my chain, right?"

"Nope. For the fat pitcher, Hamm. And a prospect down in Double A, some golden boy shortstop named Ruiz. Or is that Luis? I don't remember. Either way, you're a Baltimore Oriole now."

Randy scrubbed a hand over his face and directed his eyes to the ceiling. "Fuck, Barry. I -- " Randy trailed off, sufficiently distracted by a crack in the ceiling plaster, spidering out from the corner. He would have to get that fixed before DJ came over. And then it struck him, right in the center of his chest. 

He and DJ would no longer be teammates.

"Randy? The O's play Anaheim tomorrow night in Baltimore," Barry pointed out, jamming on his horn. "Goddamn punks and their goddamn gas guzzling pieces of -- "

Randy flattened his baseball-weathered to his forehead, the press of a headache throbbing at his temples. "Barry, shut up." Randy fought the urge to get up and drop the phone in the toilet and flush.

"I know you'll have to leave DJ behind but -- "

"That's not what I'm upset about," Randy lied, gritting his teeth.

Barry laughed, once, a sharp, irritating noise that Randy had often likened to the braying of an ass. "Ha. Well, a little birdie -- and no, it wasn't the mascot -- tells me that the first baseman, Holly, likes to hit from the other side of the plate. If you know what I mean."

"There's no way in hell Fred Holly's a lefty," Randy snapped, his agent's voice grating on him like sandpaper. "You're outta your fucking mind, Fuchsia."

"Anyway, I gotta go, Randy. Book a flight to Baltimore and don't be late about it," Barry hollered. "They've already announced tomorrow as Randy Dreyfus Bobblehead Night."

*

The Baltimore Orioles and the Los Angeles Valley Vikings don't play each other in Spring Training. In fact, the two teams don't meet until August for a three-game set in Los Angeles, and then a four-game set in Baltimore to close out the season in October.

Randy circles the date on his calendar in red permanent marker. And then circles the entire month of August in black. There's no way he's going to not get himself pumped up for the first rematch of the season against the Valley Vikings.

Randy wasn't the one who broke the bad news to DJ; he left that up to Gonse. Randy didn't think he would have the balls to tell DJ the truth. That after all they'd been through together -- from being banned from baseball, to escaping to Maine for some fly-fishing, to being reinstated, to Randy getting shot -- after all of that, they were being so cruelly torn apart.

DJ refused to speak to Randy after the trade, as if Randy had accepted the deal to go to Baltimore just to slight him. Deep down, Randy was certain DJ knew he was in the wrong, but that man was prouder than a kitten coming home with its first dead mouse, and he would never admit it.

While DJ's unflagging pride is one of the qualities Randy finds so attractive in the man, it's also one of the most maddening and bang-your-head-into-a-brick-wall frustrating.

But it's perfectly normal to want to snuggle and strangle the man you love in one breath, right?

Right.

*

Randy loves hitting in the 3-2 count more than anything; even though some of the craftier pitchers have begun throwing breaking balls in the 3-2 count, for the most part, Randy's seeing nothing but fastballs, high heat, straight-as-an-arrow stuff that he just absolutely feasts on. Sometimes they try to pound him inside, but Randy just chokes up on the bat a little bit and drives the pitches to center field. Other times they try to throw the fastballs well out of the zone, try to dust him off or get him chasing, and Randy just fouls those bad pitches off and sits on the fat stuff, the heat.

They all treat him like they think he's forgotten how to hit. Randy laughs at the absurdity of it all. The mere notion that Randy falling in love with a member of the same sex (and the same team, for that matter) could sap him of his superior baseball skills is laughable.

Randy gets the scouting reports on the pitcher he'll be seeing his first time back in Los Angeles, this blond haired, long-limbed zen-loving kid with a golden arm, and takes them when he goes out to eat, studying them between appetizers and salad, salad and soup, soup and entrée. 

_Likes to start off with a first pitch breaking ball. Can, from time to time, fall in love with the curve. Also throws a slower-than-sin fastball and has just added a changeup to his repertoire. 55 change, 70 fastball, 90 curve. Erratic but fastball/change set up curve and make him very tough to hit. Enjoys crocheting, Dungeons & Dragons and surfing. Typical lefty._ Randy smiles at that and sips his martini, flipping a page in the scouting report, taking another sip of his martini, turning another page of the scouting report.

A shadow falls over Randy's binder. "You got room for one more?"

Randy doesn't even have to look up to recognize the owner of that voice, but he does anyway. "Hey, DJ . . . Pull up a seat."

DJ grabs a chair and drags it over, sitting down and tapping his index finger on Randy's scouting report. "Got your eye on our rookie pitcher, huh?"

"Yeah. Well, no. Not like that," Randy stammers, clutching his martini protectively.

DJ laughs. "Yeah, Randy. I know." He picks at the tablecloth. His fingernails are clipped short. His shirt is Lacoste, white with a little green alligator on the breast. "So, how is Susie? How are the girls? Calvin?"

Randy is relieved that DJ has chosen to break the ice for them. "Susie's doing well. She and the girls are thinking of getting a place in Baltimore for the regular season so that we don't have to be apart the whole year 'round . . . And Calvin's doing great." Randy says, spinning his wet, pulpy cocktail napkin around on the tabletop. 

"Good," says DJ, getting up from his seat and pushing it in. He puts the warm, dry flat of his palm over the back of Randy's hand and leaves it there for a second too long for it to be casual before pulling away. "It was nice catching up on you, Shovel. See ya around." 

DJ turns to leave and Randy, for the briefest of split seconds, has an urge to call him back. To keep him from leaving.

But he doesn't. And DJ just walks away.

**Author's Note:**

> Re. the scoutspeak at the end: the grade scale in the scouting notes refer to the 20-80 scouting scale.


End file.
